


Would You Rather

by apple_pi



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Drinking Games, M/M, Silly, shot-glass chess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-20
Updated: 2006-12-20
Packaged: 2018-07-28 21:52:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7658011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_pi/pseuds/apple_pi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Han Solo and Captain Picard.”<br/>Rodney snorted without taking his eyes off the board. “Please. Captain Picard, in a heartbeat.”<br/>John moved a rook. “I don’t know. Han had that whole scoundrel thing going for him.”<br/>Rodney shifted a pawn. “Picard wasn’t afraid to bend the rules, either.” He leaned back, folding his arms. “Plus he had more experience. Han Solo was a pup, compared to Picard.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Would You Rather

“Han Solo and Captain Picard.”

Rodney snorted without taking his eyes off the board. “Please. Captain Picard, in a heartbeat.”

John moved a rook. “I don’t know. Han had that whole scoundrel thing going for him.”

Rodney shifted a pawn. “Picard wasn’t afraid to bend the rules, either.” He leaned back, folding his arms. “Plus he had more experience. Han Solo was a pup, compared to Picard.”

John hunched over the board, chewing on his lower lip. Sacrifices would have to be made... he moved his knight and took Rodney’s pawn. It left his knight vulnerable, but: “Drink.”

“You’re a moron if you think this will affect my ability to play,” Rodney said, but after he’d slung back the half-shot of (9,000 proof) moonshine in the pawn’s little shot glass, he set down the piece hard enough to startle them both. “Probably,” he added.

John smirked and sprawled back in his chair. If the drinking didn’t work, maybe the splayed thighs would. Sometimes they seemed to distract Rodney. “Like it matters,” John said. “Three out of five so far.”

Rodney made a face and hovered his hand over the board. “Soon to change, my friend, soon to change.” He moved his remaining bishop. “Okay, so Picard versus...” Rodney’s eyes were a little glazed as he stared at the wall behind John’s head. “The Fourth Doctor.”

John licked his lips and stared at Rodney’s eyelashes. “Um. What?”

“It’s your turn,” Rodney said.

“Okay.” John looked at the board. Why hadn’t Rodney gone for his knight? “Why didn’t you go for my knight?”

Rodney looked smug. “You’ll see.” His arms were folded across his chest again. It was distracting. “Or rather, you won’t see, right up until I trounce you.”

John looked up from Rodney’s forearms and furrowed his brow. “Trounce? You’re going to _trounce_ me?”

Rodney scowled. “Shut up. Also, still waiting for you to go. Also, still waiting for Picard versus Tom Baker.”

John shook his head. Rodney’d only had... a few of the little shots. He thought. “Hold on.” John moved his knight out of harm’s way, taking Rodney’s fifth pawn at the same time. “Ha. Also, Dr. Who.” He peered at Rodney through his lashes, smirking in a way guaranteed to make Rodney’s head boil. “Also, drink.”

Rodney’s scowl shifted to a full-blown glare. “Fucker.” He took his shot, slammed the glass-slash-chess-piece down, and moved his bishop again. “Check. Also, I agree.”

“You agree?” John tilted his head. If Rodney did that, that, that... that... he’d have checkmate. Also, John would have to take three more drinks. He frowned at the board. “Crap.” He moved his king out of harm’s way.

Rodney took his bishop; John started to drink as Rodney smirked. “Obviously. First of all, the Doctor is a Time Lord. Talk about experience. Secondly, the Tardis could kick the _Enterprise_ ’s ass—and it hurts me to say that,” Rodney added, waving a hand as John opened his mouth. “No, I know, but seriously. No competition.”

John, who had been more gasping-in-reaction-to-Zelenka’s-antifreeze-masquerading-as-liquor than defending-the- _Enterprise_ ’s-honor, just nodded. He turned his attention back to the game, although it was getting kind of hard to concentrate. Rodney kept _sitting_ there, and his thighs were kind of spread, pants wrinkling in a vee right over his crotch. Also his shoulders looked kind of good when he sat like that. Or any way, really, but. Wait. Chess. Yeah. John scratched his nose and looked at the board for a while.

“You planning to go?” Rodney looked a little glassy-eyed, himself.

John looked at his face, then the board. “How many shots have we had?” he asked.

“Dunno,” Rodney said. “A few?” He looked at John’s lap. “You can still get a hard-on, apparently. And I can still say apparently, apparently.”

John’s face went hot; he crossed his legs carefully. “Jesus, Rodney.”

“What? It’s a reasonable measure of inebriation.” Rodney shrugged.

“But it’s _personal_ ,” John said plaintively. “Besides. Just because you can get it up doesn’t mean you can. You know.” He made a vague gesture.

“Hitchhike? Filet salmon? What?” Rodney said. He shifted in his chair.

John aimed a scowl at him. “You know. Finish,” he said, leaning forward. “You ever have that happen? Where you can’t get to the, the, uh, finale?”

Rodney’s eyes were sleepy blue in his pink face. His hair looked messy. “Yeah. But I don’t think I’m that drunk, yet.”

“Me either.” John looked at the board again. “Is it my turn?”

“Think so,” Rodney said. He yawned.

“Don’t fall asleep,” John ordered. He looked at the board some more, then sat up straight. “Ha! Checkmate!”

Rodney’s eyes opened wide. “What?” He lurched forward, staring at the game. “No way!”

“Four out of six!” John said. “Two-thirds! I own your ass!” He grinned, leaning back in his chair.

“Son of a...” Rodney was still looking at the board. “I must be tired.”

“Tired of losing,” John said. 

“Shut up!” Rodney narrowed his eyes at John.

John resisted—just barely—the urge to stick his tongue out. He did grin some more. “Think you’d be used to it. Four games in the mess hall, four here—and I should never have agreed to letting you start the count again,” he added sharply, pointing his finger at Rodney. “Because then it would be eight out of twelve. Still two-thirds, but it sounds better.” He smirked.

“You keep distracting me!” Rodney said. “You and your, your Doctor Who! And your thigh holster!” He looked a little wild-eyed.

“Ha.” John leaned back and stretched. “Not my fault.”

“Your fault,” Rodney insisted, sounding sulky. He slouched back in his chair, arms crossed _again_ —John really liked it when Rodney did that.

“Aw, don’t feel bad,” John said. He stood up and leaned over. “I won’t even tell anyone... if you give me two of the Cadbury bars you have in your desk.”

Rodney blinked at him, mouth open in outrage. “Over my dead body!”

“No need for that,” John said, straightening. “I’m sure Zelenka will love hearing about how you lost _eight_ chess games to me.” He tried to look innocent. “And me without even so much as one doctorate.”

Rodney made a strangled noise and jumped up, face to face with John. He smelled like moonshine and soap and himself. “I demand a rematch!” he said. “You took advantage of my, uh, intoxicated state!”

“You got intoxicated while you were _losing_ to me,” John said. He looked down and swallowed. “Also, you’ve got a hard-on, so you can’t be all that drunk.”

“Thought we’d covered all that,” Rodney said, stepping back hastily. “Also, excuse me, but isn’t that a bit personal?”

“I’m—” John shook his head; the room tipped slightly. “Fuck.” He looked at Rodney, fighting past the liquor to see clearly. “Have you ever?” He shrugged one shoulder. “Y’know.”

“Uh.” Rodney blinked a few times. 

“You ever think about it?” John swallowed. Fuck, this was stupid. He stepped forward, which brought him into Rodney’s space again. “You know. With a guy? Or. Um. With me?” His voice got softer on the last two words and he looked away from Rodney’s eyes, at his collarbone instead. “It’s okay.”

Rodney made a strangled sort of noise and grabbed John’s shirt. “Shut up,” he said.


End file.
